Christmas Special 2017
by KING FELIX
Summary: A snowflake hipster recently offered me 150k for a memory transplant of life in 80's. Obviously, I headbutted him, but here is Miami Vice, just like it was in the day, minus the ending that's abrup


Christmas Special 2017.

'This story has no moral.

Trust not sleep or sorrow.

The fife-man croons the lull to wake

& Brings strong soldiers to a windy beach'.

-Jim Morrison, 'Ah, the rule...'

To call Matheson the highest point of the Keys was maybe saying something, maybe not. The partially-manmade embankment caught the light of the scrapers and the eel glow of the water well enough, though always it was hell desolate. From the marsh-dwellers onwards, palatial fortress shacks had been built a circumspect distance from South Beach, settling into a steady routine of moonshine, smuggling, gambling, anything shy of sacrificial black-magic; that'd come later with the Haitians. The area was close enough to the fisheries, there'd been just enough necessity to run above-ground pipes, electrical junction yards, marker buoys the exact size of moon-shots -though these trappings were now neglected, tangential. You had to figure they'd rust if they weren't built from the same hi-quality composite as the scrapers.

In the deep silence, Sonny's nerves had risen crazily and he'd barely noticed. Now and forever you had to wonder about stake-outs merging into stake-outs, thereon the whole city becoming a cornered rattlesnake. Tubbs was far more at ease, or in any case with no hesitation as he sidled within the one klick perimeter the Lieutenant had ordered. Hell if he didn't look straight at the penthouse with his Helios binoculars, because what could give them away less than two more specs of light against a glittering city? The theatre of operations was motionless with tropical air pressure.

"It doesn't make sense. Exposed place like this has too many ambush spots for a Zopey bring-n'-buy. What chopper look-out has time to search all that highground while his boss makes the trade?"

Sonny brooded. It never _did_ make sense. There was only ever that weird psychology where a dealer was seduced by the banked lights of a nearby penthouse, colourful pastel awnings, doted palm trees; nothing could hurt a guy in a civilisation that was practically _founded_ on coke deals. Then again, all life in Miami was an exercise in kidding yourself. A snappy and evil monster lived in those fancy lights, the neon ripples of the water –odds-on, they'd one day be the last thing you ever saw.

Beside the lavish, concrete platforms of a riverside pad like Akachi Szechaun's. They watched the windows through the reality-expanding panamorphic lens of Rico's scope, trying not to get tugged down in the deep irony. 'Papa Noel' they called him, an African term for 'Santa Claus'. Every stool pigeon and old stool crow who'd plea-bargained in Dade County's recent slew of commuted inmates had spoken of the same crazy nickname. From the outset, the drug lord always claimed the title had been forced on him by fellow lowlives who'd marvelled at his sense of goodwill and charity -and from hearing this story barely once, a deep reserve of hatred had taken residence in Sonny's stomach. 'Santa Claus' -how you squared that with the crime scene photos of pig-bled small-timers and informants who'd struggled for minutes against the pressure of having their necks broken: evil owned everything, and it never stopped trying to be cute like a little kid. If there was the slightest bit of logic that had gone into the nickname, it was that Szechaun's crop was seasonal, hitting the Miami distribution lanes always in the final weeks of the year.

Like crazy-wide pillars of a future-Roman penthouse, Papa Noel's pad lay solidly on curved layers of grade-A granite. The water which crept in tight around the artful round edges was becoming motionless as the night progressed, no more moonpool reflections of tropical light. Rico had no trouble observing the whole thing; Sonny resisted looking through the narrow, trendy windows. The last thing he needed to see was Szechaun handing a drink to a beautiful girl, making her smile then inevitably getting lucky.

As his partner stood taut, he paced a little way off onto the dark slopes and there to brood. He thought about the logistics of the case only marginally. He tried to think about Sara Davis, or girls like her, the post-season Rangers fixtures, which booze to take to the Department Christmas Party -anything at all.

But he was inevitably drawn to 'nam. The '71 round of ambushes-through-pig-traps. Setting out on patrol through the tight canyons of the Delta, so many men had been inclined to suddenly freeze as their intuitions had flailed wildly at the dense scrub. It had been a constant tick-tock of delirious nerves, made worse by the fact that these weren't cowardly guys, or even men who normally felt fear.

Sonny looked at the coloured lights of Miami, wondering how it had come to this. Calderon hitmen and classless hoodlums gravitating round every bead, there to dole death as sure as any Vietcong.

He rubbed his muzzle, brooding to hell, finally becoming aware of music. It'd had been there for some time, a ways off from Szechaun's residence, not the kind of thing that would've been favoured by an upwardly mobile Haitian. It was pretty and upbeat, something like Voice of the Beehive, maybe the Cocteau Twins.

Sonny saw Rico had merged with a group of three other people: a guy in a suit-shirt, another guy, bearded, doting on a clipboard, and -weirdly- a beautiful girl dolled to the nines. A party girl, not necessarily enjoying a night out, still indulging some kind of profoundly fun-loving personality. She held a boombox. The big, crimped bob in hair tilted as she enjoyed the rhythm, even in darkness catching lightbulb translucence.

Clicking his fingers, Rico said, "Panchendriya!"

His party trick of being able to guess a girl's cologne or perfume, no matter how new or conservatively-applied. It came from being a denizen of the clubs, the world of exclusive call girls, mules, party liaisons -and just occasionally getting sweet on a 9-to-5 city worker expending her disposable income in the fashion pages of Miami Vogue.

The girl said, "You guys are late-night cologne salesmen?"

"That job would be too easy for me. And I don't give samples".

The pretty pop music continued to move them along, the girl laughing, "An easy job? You sure there's any _hard_ jobs even inside fifty miles of South Beach?"

"Fifty miles? I thought out here we were at least a hundred", pattered Rico, despite the fact that the illuminated zig-zag of Southeast Finance was clearly visible across their shoulders. "Ask what we're out here in the middle of the night for? It's Miami. No matter where you are, the party comes to you".

"Here I am, anyhow", said the girl affably.

Sonny glowered and took in the sight of the two men accompanying the girl. One was kicking the turf with his heel, testing the solidity of the ground for -something. A beautiful girl and two guys, all-business, in the middle of nowhere and in the dead of night -he had to figure they were filming a bluey. Except, ah, notwithstanding how Miami still had the capacity to surprise him; the girl seemed far too classy for that. It was possible she wasn't even trouble...

An unintentionally tight purple skirt played second fiddle to a white mini-jacket, oversized shoulders decorated with modern-era Daytona patches which Sonny, out of the loop with circuit racing since Danny Tepper, could hardly recognise. A variation of the GT85 logo across her high shoulder blades was about all he knew. He stared at the rolled sleeves of the jacket, squared so hastily on slender-jointed forearms, almost not up to the task of hauling that monster boombox.

He tried to grin, "Are we really at that time of night when all the cool kids beat a track to the middle of nowhere?"

"I could tell you what we're doing here", the girl said, tangy state accent breezing the words, "but you'd think it's jive".

"The art of jive. My absolute favourite", said Rico.

"You guys don't watch MTV do you?"

Sonny put his hands on his hips. He watched ball games, exclusively. Rico, on the other hand, wagged his hand in sharp appreciation. "You're the singer! With that slinky, itchy, devil-catchy 'Overload' song that gets played everywhere. That song plays in my mind as sure as a heartbeat".

"Volumnia. Real name also Volumnia. I didn't mean to write a catchy song. But now I've got that suitcase of company money…"

The two cops tried to stand easy. For vice detectives, suitcases of money were associated with one thing and one thing only, as synonymous to drug deals as switchblades, kilo bags, tense-shouldered look-outs. The two men beside her walked in stiff arcs and stared in the direction of the water. Sure, Sonny could believe she was a big-time pop singer and they were her minders. That slightly atonal, nasal edge in her voice he recognised as something that accompanied the very best nightclub acts; he guessed the same phenomenon also applied to chart music singers. The physicality, also, something else. Miami-sexy was usually a textbook of long legs and a nigh-artistic waistline. _This_ girl had legs that were wide, low, but with a tight fold at her pelvis that spoke of a girl-next-door elasticity no one had even seen before.

He almost stared. Rico, however, was as professional as always, slyly forming his patter into incisive tags.

"So you're out here, post-clubs, dodging autographs? Now, y'see, I'm a New York man, we're too cool to hassle our celebrities".

"I'm out here with my suit boys", revealed Volumnia. "Finalising this place as the location for my next video".

"This place?", winced Sonny. "It's like the moon!"

"That's the idea", laughing, turning to gesture at the huge bank of city lights. "The moon, but crossed with a big-as-you-like Christmas tree. I took my idea for the follow-up single to Overload to the MRC bosses. But they're such a new record company, they're nervous as hell. They said they wanted to maximise the novelty factor. Make a Christmas song, they said. They claim to have the cash to hire Steve Barron; he's the guy who did the animation for A-ha, Take on Me -only with this video, all these lights behind us are gonna come alive, like snowflakes, Christmas Trees. MRC reckons just the look of it alone, plus that it's a Christmas song -we'll get to the top of the charts over night. Can't party to The Waitresses forever, right?"

Rico said, "That sounds like one ambitious record".

Volumnia laughed. "Who are you guys? What are you doing out here, really? I'm fascinated".

"I'm Clay, this is Phil", said Sonny. He wasn't sure why he didn't give their usual cover names of Burnett and Cooper; something about the situation frazzled his brain. "We were walking. Started clubbing, I guess, same as every night. But I tell Phil, 'We need to find employment for my kid brother, just out of work this month'. Figured we'd scout the night-fishing ports across the bay".

She was dubious, "You're pressuring some poor teenager to get a _job_ in Miami, really?"

Sonny, "Worst thing he bums around and becomes playboys like us".

"You know this is a big operation?", she reached to a pocket inside her tiny jacket and withdrew a business card. "This is the production company that's gonna film my video; I think they could use an extra roadie".

For the first time, one of the men accompanying Volumnia spoke up, tone of voice dark, mechanical, "Roadies are for roadshows. But I guess we could use a rigger".

"That'd be appreciated", breathed Sonny. "Tell him it's a first step into show business, and he lands on his feet like a Persian cat".

Said Volumnia, "The name of the production company filming the video is Brooklyn Beattie. Weird, huh?"

"And this video", Rico narrowed his eyes, "is really going to big-time, one-for-the-ages?"

"That's the plan", sighed Volumnia. "We haven't left ourselves much time to get it finished and edited, but whoever _does_ get enough time at Christmas?"

Even as they spoke, the company men pacing around taking polaroids, she turned to face the city lights, none of them glittering so much as presenting a constant blue-yellow, seemingly more solid and eternal than anything a mere energy grid or power station could generate. And Sonny stared at her upper frame, the tough and compact nature of her shoulders and shorn neck. Not the most stereotype-sexy girl, but hell if she didn't imprint herself like a boy's first centrefold. No lipstick but a breeze of war-like blusher. It was when she turned and smiled, he saw one of the smaller details: left ear naked, right ear with a tiny metallic logo -he saw that it was a miniature reproduction of one of those Miami harbour signs warning of a car accidentally backing up, tipping into the water.

The cassette gulped round to bring fresh music. The Furious Five's Message. Placing the boombox on the aged grass, she stepped clear and started to dance. Every inch of her legs were utilised in sliding up, snaking back thru a partial limbo, skip-jogging as if to power free the tension in her neck. Balance was tested, too. Granted the thickness of her miniskirt gave her waist a handy amount of flex, but the ability to fold to the ground in a single motion, form a moondial, pivot on a single thigh -it was how a girl might dance in a dream.

Rico made fists and danced a little himself, unpretentious and effective. Sonny shook his head in wonder. All were absorbed in a neon-lit night groove, only petering out when they were joined by Death.

Papa Noel stood among them. At some point he'd silently stalked upwards from his waterside castle. As the two detectives blanched, Volumnia simply said, "And as benefactors go, I don't think you get any cooler than Mr Noel. He practically volunteered this whole space when I was here at a party a couple of months ago".

"I just want to make history", he set up the satire, and then completed it himself, "by helping make a Christmas MTV song".

In person, the man was instantly recognisable as a Miami drugs boss, nothing more, nothing less. Calmness and overconfidence were his only weapons, eerie little characteristics he'd hit upon some time in his infernal teenage years. Sonny glowered. The deep vacuum where any kind of humanity should be -funny how the _absence_ of a thing should be such a constant danger.

Gesturing at the city lights, Rico said, "Guess you don't have to shell out for coloured bulbs".

Papa Noel was placid, "What better thing to spend money on, anyway, but good times?"

Said one of the company logistics men, "Especially good times that pay for my kid to go through college".

It was to the company man that Sonny spoke; he couldn't bring himself to address Szechaun. "I guess pretty soon this place'll be overrun with catering wagons and movie camera tracks".

Except Szechaun would never let the poor guy speak. "Are you my neighbours from around here? I promise to keep the beautiful party atmosphere discreet".

"It's fine, pal. In Miami, aren't we all neighbours?", as sincere as he could manage.

Volumnia volunteered, trying to help out like a good girl, "This is Clay and his friend Phil. They ditched partying just for one night to go out and look for a job for Clay's brother".

"It's a good economy nowadays", Szechaun was optimistic.

Except, evil thoughts powered through the detective's brain, _'As economies go, it's as false as they come. Good for you and yours only, even then only briefly'._

Volumnia said, "I'm going to be the guy's salvation. Wrangle him a job as a rigger for the production company".

"Interesting job", said Szechaun.

They talked; the undercover cops dissected and analysed. As with all Miami drug bosses, it was impossible to tell how deep the man's paranoia was, how artfully refined it was, whether he needed it at all; maybe a false conception of luck and some hi-calibre guns were all you needed to steer you through to the big penthouse in the sky. Supply-and-demand, an economy-of-economies all swirling round in a blood-stained trip to hell.

More and more, Sonny felt a kind of warmth on his hands, and keenly. Some time in 'nam, or maybe back home, on the Mario Fuente case, or the Frank Mosca case, he'd been holding a crime victim as they bled out. That feeling of hot blood flowing deep inside every tiny crack in your hand: you always expected it to be sticky, but it never was, at least, not to start with. It was warm and soft, kinda like velvet. Every now and then over the years, the sensation would return as a phantom whenever his stress levels passed any variety of coping.

What was happening, that he nowadays felt it all the time?

Back at the Spyder, Rico said, "So 'Volumnia', huh? We gonna fight over her?"

"Even if she wasn't trouble?", Sonny grinned weakly.

"You're thinking what I'm thinking? That the video shoot is one part drug chain?"

"Hell if I know. Guys like Szechaun own so much of this world, he'd fund the girl wanting no more in return than Live Aid from Africans".

"You okay, partner?", Rico asked the question like a dice-throw yelp.

To which Sonny edged on his sunglasses, midnight or no, "I guess it's just the same old same old with a Christmas vibe".

XS

One hand resting on the phone, Zito looked over his case notes as a high-class chef perfecting a recipe. Switek watched him keenly, doing no work whatsoever.

"You sure you don't want me to make the call? You've got to admit I have a lot more of a youthful-sounding voice than you, right? I can pass for a nineteen year-old with zero effort".

"I'm on this", shrugged Zito, studying the 'Brooklyn Beattie' business card, twirling his pen. Soon he was leaning back as mild as could be.

As Switek could only shift his weight and smile darkly. Apart from Gina and Trudy moving silently in the background, amassing surveillance shots, the Operations Room was strikingly relaxed. Detectives from other departments, famously intimidated by the Vice team, neither dropped in or passed through. All was business-like, and Switek fought to hide his irritation. He spread his arms as his starched Hawaiian shirt hung loose.

"I just don't get why you jumped on this. You're the most un-teenager-like guy I know".

Explained his friend, "But I have experience with production companies. In college, I was the producer on some pretty cool three-act plays".

"What kind of college drama group needs a producer?"

Switek moved inwards from the light-reflecting plaster of their office window, promptly to stare hard at Zito as only jokey, long-standing partners can. "I get what this is about. You're hoping this 'Brooklyn Beattie' turns out to be a real production outfit, and you get the gig as some kind of police-work-advisor on a dozen cop shows".

Except Zito remained mild, "I don't know about that. Would anyone in Pennsylvania or Seattle believe what a Miami cop has to deal with? But my screenplay - I might try to sell them that".

"You wrote a _screenplay_? About what?"

The excitement came as the most salacious revelation, Switek's face fully abeam and no doubt buoyed-up for hours to come.

Said Zito, "It's a sci-fi movie. Not so fancy. Just The Terminator meets Network".

Switek waited a beat. Nothing came. "You can't leave it at that. 'The Terminator meets Network'? What is that?"

"Basically", Zito smiled a little, "In the future, scientists discover the secret of time travel, but the only things they can send back are strong emotions. So in our time, you get people suddenly going nuts, but for no reason, and no one can figure out why".

"So... there's, kinda, detectives trying to figure out what's going on?", Switek clasped the edge of the desk, stared hauntedly.

"They trace all the outbreaks around this big-time international businessman. Turns out his shady business dealings are forming into a big corporation that'll eventually destroy civilisation, society, everything".

"Yeah, but isn't that some pretty basic thinking? Surely if society's gonna get destroyed, it's _everyone_ you'd be angry at?"

"Maybe that's the final moral of the movie. You only ever figure how you feel about things, slowly, slowly".

The concave clock on the wall above their desk ticked on, suddenly with every heavy-set clack deeply distracting, tormenting. Their corner-bought Pepsis had long-since turned flat; you could see it just by the texture of the heated bronze liquid. As Switek stared and frowned. Eventually he started to maul the rear of his teddy-boy hair, thereafter to spread his hands like an excitable magician.

"I guess it could work. I can hear Elvis on the end credits. 'You are always on my mind', completely unexpected. Kids playing happily, as if they should all be panicked. Maybe close in on the Statue of Liberty. I mean, if the movie gets syndicated on TV, then -"

He gulped as he realised his partner had long-since dialled the business card number and patched the call onto the sophisticated new speaker system.

 _"Brooklyn Beattie, and this is Beattie speaking. How can I help?"_

"Oh, hey, this is Terry Zwieger. Y'know, you don't sound much like you're from Brooklyn".

 _"New Hampshire. Via my hometown Monterey. Chose 'Brooklyn' because it sounds cool. Also my husband is a Bobcats fan"._

"Cool. I was referred to you by Volumnia Reeder. Said there was the chance of a rigging job in the Miami area? I have zero experience, but I can lift with my legs, crawl into spaces..."

 _"I've been expecting your call, Terry. And it's true lifting and crawling is ninety percent of the job. Setting up light boards, dollies, cranes, running cables, hoisting speakers, changing bulbs at a rate of knots, laying ground sheets that get destroyed straight away. Standing around getting bored, then also doing tasks that seem totally pointless, but really aren't. You think that's a job you might be interested in?"_

"I've got a good threshold for boredom", said Zito, thinking of fruitless bug-van stakeouts A-to-Z. He made eye contact with Switek, who gave a so-far-so-good gesture.

The suggestion of that certain variety of undercover work; ultra-casual work-a-day integration - sure, it was easier than sliding around a corner and going point-to-point with your sidearm, but not by much. The strange, evil deception was still there. People coasting on bravado and not much else.

At his shoulder, Zito was joined by Sonny, listening tensely, doggedly. Rico folded a Vuitton jacket across his forearm, perpetually smoothing out the skinny cotton. The sound of Brooklyn Beattie's voice was profoundly annunciated, region-free like a Nixon-era politician and crossed with a woman forever young. It filled the squad room, powered to all corners, forming on ballistics charts, ethnic mug shots, heroin production stats. All could hear -such a confident and crisp accent was something Sonny found attractive, and it troubled him to the ends of the Earth.

 _"You'll be working around Volumnia. You can't get starstruck, Terry. The bigger the name, the less likely they've got time to talk to their fans. It's nothing personal. It's all about staying low-key and unobtrusive. Is that something you can understand?"_

"Leave my autograph book at home; not a problem".

 _"You're from Miami, is that right, Terry? I can offer you good money, better than most, but not enough to buy a nightclub, buy a Rolex, buy a sports car notwithstanding you're with me for the longest haul"._

"I hear that", breezed Zito, then by means of adding a realistically wary proviso, "I guess that's fine".

They arranged a time for him to start work, at a location not a million miles removed from Szechaun's oceanside pad. Slowly, dryly, Zito replaced the handset and looked to his fellow cops.

Who in turn stood tense and ready as Lieutenant Castillo made his appearance from the hallway. Ever circumspect, he briefly glowered from officer to officer. He ranged the shadow-black side of his Today's Man suit, dismissively waved a handful of reports, each cop realising a plan of action had already been formed, pored over as if from the upside of a maze.

"Briefing room".

xsx

A spiders web of drug cabals, exchange points and war skirmishes spiked out from the wall-mounted city map. It wasn't symmetrical, but otherwise so much resembled the tactical charts the Ronin had used in 'Seven Samurai'. All too often, Sonny would look at Castillo, remembering the Gretsky case, when the guy had brandished a four foot blade right under the palms and pretty awnings of South Beach. Part of some Company / Old World showdown, the assassins had come in waves, any one of which could have snuffed out a regular cop in a heartbeat.

Funny how he pictured that so easily in his mind. Funny how it didn't become a motif for everything.

"Twelve petty drug dealers have told how Akachi Szechaun, AKA Papa Noel, is a high-level supply boss, specialising in cocaine, murderous of both his own lieutenants and civilian bystanders. His output of drugs into Miami is seasonal; ordinarily, he'd be regarded as a mid-priority. In this case, he's been superseded".

Castillo held up a maximised, DMV-sourced photo of a swish-haired thirty-something woman, semi-unconventionally beautiful -but in terms of compelling eyes and a knowing mouth, with something that made each man hitch his breath.

"Beatrice Banma. Thirty-nine years old. Nominally a producer of music videos and vanity-project short films by secondary Hollywood stars. She operates alone in Miami as a dozen others run LA and San Francisco. Evidence points that she's been acting as a relay between importers like Szechaun and society figures like Volumnia Reeder for many years. In 1983, she was hired to produce a music video for the singer Olivia OLars. Shortly after, a member of Olars' entourage suffered an embolism caused by an overly-pure mix of cocaine. The music video was never made, and with evidence to show that it never even went into production to begin with. Miss Banma's business dealings and her personal life support that her production company is only a semi-operational front. The tens of thousands of dollars she's received into her bank accounts, supposedly revenue from her business, far outweigh the registered contracts she's undertaken. She also claims to be married to an Army commando stationed in Thule; this is a deception".

Rico handed the photo print to Sonny, who stared at it for entirely too long. There was elements of Debbie Harry, also Julianne Springsteen. But her eyes; she was someone who thought deeply from the moment she woke in the morning to the moment she bedded down, too tried to read, thereafter to lay worrying, alone. Even centring herself in front of the harmless little DMV photographer, she'd looked guilty and brinkmanship-confrontational. Still Sonny knew in his bones: it was just the guardedness of a too-thoughtful girl in glitzy, power-partying Miami. No drug kingpin ever looked so thoughtful.

Announced Castillo, "Crockett, I want you to suspend your investigations of Szechaun. I've arranged for you to go undercover, posing as an media financer, to liaise with Banma and gather as much intelligence as you can".

There was a single beat in Sonny's heart as he launched into a protest, "Szechaun is a prime target; Tubbs and I have been watching him. We know he shifts product into at least three of the South Beach networks. We know that bodies have mounted, on his orders. To suspend the investigation now is crazy".

"You're wrong, Crockett. The first thing the DA will ask is why we didn't proceed top-down and methodically. If we go after Szechaun and Banma at the same time, the prosecutions will become a mess of plea-bargains, completely historical case files. The woman will give us Szechaun and beyond".

The detectives knew, Castillo was being tolerant. Following the outburst, he'd barely even looked at Sonny.

At which point something snapped. No one in the Briefing Room could make sense of it. Sonny half rose from his seat and knuckled the desk in front of him; it would have been comically overbearing if the case didn't involve a dealer as evil as Papa Noel, a police lieutenant as stern as Castillo.

Raging, "Szechaun formed from the shadows, just like they all do. That's what we should be fighting. The evil that comes out of nowhere, takes a hold. It's not about networks or supply chains; this is the town where any guy on the street could take up a gun or a machete and become a king! We need to shut that down!"

"We aren't assassins", said Castillo quietly.

"How about firefighters?", Sonny's face turned motionless, still strangely expressive. "You think some media girl like Banma would be able to set up a drugs chain if lowlives like Szechaun don't appear everywhere, all the time?"

No Perestroika, no CND. You had to figure if there was a single-minded progression being made towards the future, it was led by a series of switches built solidly into the human brain. Look closely, they're right there under the hood, like the pig-steel replacement carburettor in a rusty Cavalier, a Citation or an Excel. The switches flipped between evil or indifference. One way or the other, they always moved to extremes and never a third choice anywhere. If you were lucky, there was the ability to think, observe, brood, except how quickly it turned to a vicious curse.

"In the final analysis, Beatrice Banma might be a simple media girl", confirmed Castillo. "She's going to be investigated by you, Crockett. You'll report to Tubbs with the intention of logging incriminating evidence, setting up a sting only if it's an immediate concern. The rest of you will stay on Szechaun and try to find a connection between the two".

The detectives filed out. Sonny as a tense-shouldered animal.

Said Zito, "And there was me getting ready to spend the day hanging Christmas decorations".

Trudy smirked, waving a handful of carbon-print search warrants, "Don't count on using these as paper chains".

xsm

Of a town formed almost exclusively of hastily-constructed suites and villas, the basin area which housed Banma's company was still bunkerish in the extreme. For some time, Sonny, AKA Clay Zwieger, had been easing the Spyder into overly-thoughtful sweeps across the galaxy-arm turn-offs, finally to pull alongside a pebble-walled perimeter that barely hinted at the deep-set villa beyond. Super-low-maintenance shrubs were an extra piece of fortification. He also noted there were strings of Christmas lights, except this hardly made sense: it was December 21, granted, but the wires and bulbs were dirty and overgrown. They'd been there all year long apparently.

Stalking forward, he felt a confrontational mood looming large in his gut. A refusal to remove his sunglasses was set in stone, even as he buzzed the intercom and saw her moving through the defiantly un-frosted glass. When she opened the door, however, a kind of numbness set in; he snaked the shades into his breast lapel, smiled as best he could.

"Hiya. Beatrice? Clay. I was referred to you by my pal Volumnia".

That striking face. Angular jawline and a definitive Roman nose, although when it came to disarming candour -she had an atom bomb. So much so that for the longest time, he didn't even notice how she'd come to the door while expertly stretching out the cord of her housephone - ten feet plus. Some kind of high-end business conversation proceeded.

"Get to shelter. Run if you have to. Call in extra mirror boards from the depot. If the worst comes to worst, we'll treat the finished stock with blue-streak".

She blinked, some kind of pragmatic little calculation. The phone was replaced.

"Clay Zwieger? I did get your fax. Good to meet you. Have a seat, I'll get you a drink".

"Is this a bad time? That phone call sounded kinda dramatic".

"Set up base in Miami, they said. 'It's sunny all year round'. You've got landmasses that can double for any tropical beach in the world. And now all of a sudden, my film crew has to deal with wind, on the one day it needs to look like Monte Carlo!"

Sonny said, "Well, I apologise for Miami".

"I'm being unfair. There's something special about it. I've always liked cities with lots of lights. Couldn't be New York or LA because that's too obvious. Chicago and Boston are too divey. Vegas, I'd lose my money in a sinch. But Miami? It's a kind of tropical San Francisco. It's like Seattle with rolling blue sky".

"It's a regular Pittsburgh with coke-parties and shoot-outs".

What was it, that made him bait his cover like that?

"What can I get you to drink? Coffee? Juice? It's not too early for Scotch or Martini in my book".

"Give me a juice", he breezed, then immediately regretted forgoing the liquor.

The main room of Banma's penthouse was standard South Beach, a sixties-style recess with only partially comfortable furniture. The pastel shades were artful, in some ways as strangely colourful as full-on reds and blues. There were no idiosyncrasies to fix on, besides a porcelain Geisha doll into whose dainty fingers Banma had placed a tiny 'Action!' clapper board. That, plus a lifesize-plus model of The Bride of Frankenstein, advancing in her elegant gown while inhaling some kind of acute personal horror.

But it was the far smaller rooms which lay beyond the side-doors which fascinated Sonny. Made entirely from lacquered pine, they reminded him of the small, angular rooms of his childhood home. Quite a glimpse, too, of a monastic life. It was hard to believe that the smarmy white-collars who constituted a Miami one-night-stand would be happy in such a tiny, humble bedroom and no en suite.

He looked at the Bride of Frankenstein. Oversize Christmas fairy lights had been draped over her shoulders, her towering, white-streaked hair unadorned as a mark of respect. From the classic monster heroine, he looked towards Banma as she fooled around fixing his juice.

A precinct cop fixing an identi-kit might just begin to ID her before getting hopelessly out of his depth. The grey-brown eyes, the steep brows, the Roman nose -these features were clear enough. But her sculpted mouth, the ever-alert folds beyond the pink of her lips, the way they rippled across an unnaturally tight jaw. These things would always surprise you.

"I see you're in love with the Bride of Frankenstein. I wish there was a story behind why I own her. I got her from a company in Burbank that advertises office art for movie executives. Not art that might look good _anywhere_ , you understand, but specifically for people who run movie production companies, as if that's such a universal job that it needs its own home-decor company. I felt sorry for her being owned by such cliquey people; I just had to buy her and get her shipped out here".

Sonny caught himself grinning. "You're kind of principled. I'm not sure we can do business".

"Everyone can find business nowadays. It's like a switch getting flicked between city trading and Assisted Living. The trouble is trying to find somewhere in between".

He was gifted the juice and they stood together at a tall window overlooking thick-trunk copper leaves. Beyond that, bunkerish mobiles, wall-size power junctions, high-class garbage sheds.

"What's your business? Just investment? That must be a satisfying job".

The path of least resistance was for Sonny to integrate some of his old cases into the lie, beyond that mention something he loved. "I bankrolled a couple of sports promos. Danny Tepper in the Miami 500. And I helped make a showreel that got Jose Canseco picked up by the Modestos".

Said Beatrice, "I know Jose Canseco. Kind of. When I was in first school, all the other girls were in love with handsome baseball stars; they'd go to Saturday night games with their dads. My Dad and me always had better things to do, but I remember I'd lie. I'd pretend I was there in the crowd, say things like, 'Did you see Gary Carter catch that meteor?', 'Did you see Herisher do such-and-such?' It's funny how I thought I could just make up incidents and get away with it".

"Maybe you should be a baseball coach", suggested Sonny.

"Or a professional poker player".

There was an idea. He imagined having a royal flush in his hands and still being flustered by those imperious eyes. Though they'd probably be her downfall, too; the ferocity was mysterious, could only ever escalate. Would they one day be at gunpoint?

"I don't know why I told you that. I hate people who go on about their childhoods".

Sonny suggested, "Better than if I went on about Hamburger Hill or the Tet Offensive".

"Do you need to? You don't strike me as the kind of guy who has nightmares, anyway".

"Can't say I have nightmares. Too much like sitting on a couch and getting therapy, which I happen to be allergic to".

"I'm allergic to lemons", she non-sequitured.

After a heart-felt smile, he pulped his cheeks, looked at the ground, replied. "I wasn't gonna pay you with a Chiquita crate".

"First you've got to decide if you like what I do, how I do it", she warned.

"And how do you do it?"

When she smiled it was masterfully insouciant, always effortless. Her eyes moved like an actress in the middle of a play, detecting the laughter or gasps in the audience then distantly reacting. Not that Sonny had ever lived for the theatre.

"I'm frugal, for a start. I get a client, I don't exactly ply them with fancy drinks in a fancy bar. In Miami, that's too obvious. Instead, I let the product do the talking".

Alongside the wall-mounted 25" TV was a long oak cabinet; she moved the shutter in a remarkably smooth slide to reveal ranks of VHS video cassettes. Hundreds, maybe. The generic labels had been so carefully written in block capitals, using one of those astronaut pens that was neither fountain ink or scratchy ball-point. The effect of hours upon hours of monastic care was unmistakable.

Some of the tapes were held in transparent plastic cases, fancy, futuristic. She withdrew one and held it before Sonny. For his sins, his mind immediately brooded on how easily the tapes and cases could be used to smuggle caps, pills or coke. As if reading his mind, she took a cassette and used a concealed switch to flick open the tapehead.

"Smell".

He did so. The odour of the magnetic tape was subtle, a little like the IPA wipes Gina used to clean their type-writers, but also with the hint of an electrical storm hitting a dozen new cars. Not unpleasant at all.

"Imagine putting your heart and soul into something, capturing it all on one of these -then you can take it anywhere, show it to anyone".

To further enthrall him, she took the tape and inserted it into the briefcase-size hunk of metal beneath the TV. Sonny was almost in a mode of thought where he didn't automatically brood on whether the thickness of the steel would stop a firefight slug. And sure, of course. This is the future where everything is solid and well-made. A noise of robotic inhalation indicated that the mechanism of the tape had been absorbed into a moving labyrinth of sub-motors, solenoids and tuning runners, Midwest farm equipment masterminded by a civilisation of ants.

The screen blinked into existence some Montana-style mountains, although inset with mid-west haybails totally dominating the flat green fields. The steadiness of the camera suggested it was held fast on a tripod or crane, though the exact mindfulness of the motion, the irreverence of the crawl, suggested handheld and ad-hoc sniping. Somehow every rough edge or white surface -concrete farm buttresses, wet grass patches- brought yellow spikes of light completely at odds with where the sun should be.

"That's a relaxing scene", noted Sonny. It really was. He stared at the video for some time, a good few beats, before Banma play-teased him in a way that could never truly be really hurtful.

"For God's sake, and there was me thinking you were paying attention to the technical skills. Try this on for size-"

She bent down to switch one cassette for another. In the instant of looking several places at once, Sonny tried not to dwell on the tight, unresponsive fabric at the top of an otherwise business-like skirt.

And next up, a crew-cutted manager in a well-polished office.

 _"In any modern business, you get down-time, time to take stock, and then suddenly you need everything at your fingertips in an absolute instant. When I took out the patent for the Harrier Rolodex, all those years ago, I knew I had something special: a titanium-mounted, non-degrading pivot to allow your business index to wheel round in quick, lightning-sharp ease. The main-"_

"Notice anything unusual?", Banma asked.

"The guy's wearing a rug?", was Sonny's guess.

"Oh, well, yes. I met the man and he was god-awful fool. But there's something else. Just listen to the quality of the audio. Since video-taping was invented, America has been the shame of the world. The voltage in our national grid and the wiring of our houses always interferes with the THD, gives you a terrible thousand-gigahertz buzz in the background. The first thing I did when I set up shop was invest in the latest Faradayed microphone attachments from China. The audio on my recordings? It's like you're practically there".

"Attention to detail, nice", said Sonny. "Though a little background buzzing might help keep me awake for a Knicks game".

"The Knicks are battlers". She then said, seemingly thinking things through on the spot, "There was a time when I was of the philosophy, 'just record everything, get it all down, regardless of the quality'. Now I'm crazily selective".

"I get that", he promised.

"What _about_ Hamburger Hill? Was Vietnam really as bad as everyone says?"

Sonny found he was curiously unphased by the about-turn questioning.

Grimly, "It was just the whole situation".

"What does that mean?", she persisted.

"Ordinary guys becoming soldiers, killers. It's not as big a deal as everyone says. We've been that way since we were cavemen. It was just -as you get older, you get more gentle and peaceful, I guess. Like your grandfolks, like Elvis doing more and more gospel songs, like big John Wayne making more and more comedies. But fighting a war so vicious, it kinda -stretches out time. Ages you about fifty years over night. And at the exact time you were starting to look at things differently, you also had to deal with the way that evil kept coming, and coming. As if you ever could".

Banma wondered, "Do you ever get it back? That peace, and gentleness?"

"Yeah!", he lied. "Pass some time, get some good pals and better liquor".

Bit by bit, Sonny wondered what was happening, whether she was attempting to stir sympathy, bringing him on side either as a business investor or a high-class drugs mule. As few women he'd ever known, she wore her heart on her sleeve, no fakery. Eyes wondering slowly as her mouth opened, just a crack, bringing the same self-satisfied poise another woman might get from a clench-tooth smile, an eye-roll, footsie in a fancy restaurant.

She said, "I often wondered: Don McCullin, Gerda Taro, Horst Faas. Could I shoot good war footage, if they asked me? Say, if the Russians pulled out all the stops in Afghanistan, or a beetle-browed ayatollah got busy pointing some nukes our way?"

"First rule of business", Sonny suggested, "never doubt yourself in front of a client".

Clarifying, "I just mean, you're in a war, and death is only ever a second away. It's as bad as everyone says it will be, as bad as you imagine it could be, surely that's deceptively easy to shoot? It'd be a different matter again if anyone knew what the exact opposite of a war is, something you could show in contrast".

"Living to see your kids make dumb mistakes. Dying in your sleep age seventy. Sounds pretty good to me", said Sonny.

"But is it?", she winced slightly. "What's playing on the radio in the corner?"

"Sam Cooke", Sonny grinned.

Doubted Banma , "I hear too much of a Southern drawl in your voice. No Muddy Waters or Howlin' Wolf?"

The way she dropped the 'g' -not too easy for a classy, Pacific-coast girl -it gave him a sharp smile. "I like things smoother than that".

They spoke for a long time about music. Banma name-dropping all the stars she'd met in the course of her production career. Some members of the Monkees, surprisingly unpleasant. An electric-folksy satellite of Jimi Hendrix, surprisingly free of drugs. Conversely, several of the famously refined members of Andy Warhol's menagerie, she'd been shocked to see mainlining coke mixed with heroin as casually as someone popping a tube of candys. Cognizant as always about the rules of entrapment-by-association and leading-the-suspect, Sonny merely listened with interest as she related stories of New Jersey and Philadelphia, grateful she didn't mention his newfound favourites Hall and Oates, Billy Joel.

Tales came of renegade members of big-name bands, unreasonable demands, crazy hotel fights.

"I gotta say, I'm fascinated. I wanna see you working".

Banma was genuinely surprised. "Why? It's almost always just pointing a camera. Putting money down for a hundred crazy little details. Occasionally I get to shout at someone".

"Strikes me you like building your own little world. Gotta figure _I_ could ever be so satisfied".

"I'll be in touch", she promised.

He felt coy as he snaked his shades back on, looked away from her and headed back to the huge sidewalk. Towards his shoulders, a weird feeling of lightness played among the aching, stress-rigid bones, the same feeling he always got when parting ways with a beautiful woman. For sure, it was just subtle enough, _just weird enough_ , to develop into the drugs-bust of the ages.

xmp

The side of the estuary where Volumnia's music video was to be filmed required a monorail for the camera. The job assigned to Zito, AKA Terry Zwieger, was to follow on, clearing obstructions large and small. Wood chips, bits of pine and palm, these were to be left in place as they'd be dislodged by a low-wattage blower during the filming, so adding a midnight windswept feel. It was a good job, and Zito felt an eerie and masochistic pleasure at mindlessly following someone else's orders, so many million miles removed from the freedom Castillo gave them on a regular stake-out. He missed having Larry to talk to, but in recompense, repeatedly found five and ten cent pieces in the dirt -discarded because South Beach types hated carrying small change. One time, under a Sabal tree, he even found a shining new fifty, resolving that if he found many more, he'd buy himself a bottle of tequila instead of just putting them in a charity rattler.

Low clouds hung above the everglades, but overhead, the sky was nothing but a soft dizzying blue, temperature sixteen degrees, all pretty comfortable to labour in. After a few hours, Zito folded high the brim of his fishing hat, gambled on psychology -if he looked kinda stupid, Szechaun, if he walked past, was less likely to see him as a threat.

Something that he hardly needed to worry about in the final equation. Towards mid-morning, the main man emerged from his penthouse door in a shirt so starched it was easily the most nightclub-ready garment Zito had ever seen. He was accompanied by a smirking lieutenant, Afro-Caribbean, a burlap sack slung weirdly across his skinny shoulder. This was the man they called 'Sealie', Zito guessed owing to his smooth head and curved nose, kinda like a sea-lion.

The detective stared craftily, keeping subservient at all times. The two men strolled onto a groomed verge beside the water as casually as Vegas high-rollers entering a bar on someone's birthday. Overhead, the sun was almost as constant as Szechaun's smile, as he stood back to observe his lieutenant hefting the sack onto the spikey grass, spilling a dozen remote control speedboat toys.

The two men kidded around. Were they going to race each other? It would be strangely boyish and heartwarming, but then again, Zito remembered the way he and Switek had witnessed two downtime dealers in Hialeah fixing up Endowment for Democracy leaflets. Another time, on a stake-out in Doral, they'd seen a spaced-out dealer spurn rolling a joint to spontaneously repurpose the Rizla into a Bladerunner origami unicorn, the damnest thing either of them had ever seen.

As the drugs-lieutenant clicked the 9-volt batteries into the place and checked the propellers, Szechaun gestured into the water and told a joke. "Two men are looking into the water and they see a large wooden plank floating by. 'Look', says the first man, 'the American Board of Police Captains'. 'It can't be', says the second man, 'it's _moving_!'"

The skinny man gave a curt laugh. "Godam pigs".

Finally each of the speedboat toys were ready to race. Almost tenderly, Godam glided the first one into the estuary water and took up the remote control. The oddly-powerful electrical turbines caused it to arc steeply in and out, gradually picking up current-churning arcs, Zito staring in wonder. Papa Noel's steady eyes suggested childish ecstasy, mesmerised fascination. Not that it was enough to sustain him. When the little boat reached twenty meters from the shore, he slid a handgun from his jacket and readied himself.

For Zito, just the sight of the weapon was profoundly worrying. It looked like an oversized Magnum, but modified with Tokarev-style ruts on the barrel a la some futuristic PV gun. Plus, the psychology: most handguns were crafted from cheap, factory-standard steel, leading to a slim belief you might get lucky and see it misfire. This thing? Looked like it was made from hi-tempered nickel and titanium. There'd be no misfires from now until the end of time.

Papa Noel did not wince. He did not lick his lips. Instead, he moved slowly on his heels. "My mother was a god-fearing woman. She believed that the only time the Almighty can snuff you out is when you forget He is there, at your back, watching".

He spontaneously spun around and, in the space of a heartbeat, seemingly without aiming at all, shattered the racing speedboat into a dozen splayed fragments. Before pulling the trigger, he'd even felt enough swagger to allow one arm to fall free and make the strike with a single-hand grip.

The lieutenant laughed, impressed if not outright amazed. From his position some ten meters away, it was all Zito could do to consciously turn away and maintain his cover.

Hitching his suit bottoms, Szechaun now held the gun at an unhealthy angle near his waist. The next boat started its warm-up like an injured seabird returning from captivity. It would need to move at speed. In fact, a fine electrical burring suggested it might just stand a fighting chance, if not a heck of a lot more.

The sun grew powerful, still the saturation of light pulsed with a fearful blue mottling.

Zito witnessed how the little racing boat had already chosen a different route from its doomed brother. It powered directly alongside the grass bank, a hundred meters beyond to a tiny jetty where a real, full-size speedboat was laboriously docking.

Beatrice Banma stepped free onto the wooden gang plank. She noticed the toy speedboat floating queasily at her feet and bent sharply to retrieve it.

"Perhaps", ruminated Szechaun, "I am the best gunman in Miami..."

He took aim. She looked up. They locked eyes ...and there was a curious lack of terror.

Never tie your shoelaces. It was the first thing they taught you in the training sessions for a stake-out detail; if you suddenly needed to go ultra-inconspicuous, stay bolt upright, about-turn if possible. Tying your laces was a cliché. However, with the high-stakes meeting and the new pair of eyes, Zito had no choice but to go on his haunches and scrutinize the snap-pins of the rail -as if he had any business whatsoever doing so.

There was an uneasy silence. Perhaps Szechaun was even aiming the gun squarely at Banma.

Coolly, she commented, "Is this what passes in Miami for a clay duck shoot?"

"Sadly", Papa Noel grinned, "I couldn't make it to Camp David with President Ronald and Nancy".

Explained the business lady, "I'm here on behalf of my company, Brooklyn Beattie. A courtesy call, really. There's going to be a change of production companies filming Volumnia Reeder's video. Unfortunately, it's a commission we can no longer keep".

All sound ceased for a queasy number of beats, bar the tumbling of palm trees. Zito pretended to scratch his forehead. On the newly-built luxury flats in the distance, an advertising flag rippled sharply on the roof -looking for all the world like a gunman scrambling into position. He felt the shock on his face, albeit for less than a second.

Calmness held out in Szechaun's tone, though for sure he was indignant, holding back, like an actor controlling the sheer excitement of being on stage. Something ugly; maybe a terrible Charles Dickens play.

"And how much money do you need, in order to honour your commission?"

"It's really not about the money".

Beatrice Banma, Zito decided, had that twangy kind of voice that never failed to carry an indication of her inner life. Not that it was something Szechaun found worthy of consideration.

"You must know this is a music video to celebrate Christmas! If you cease co-operation now, you're aware we won't be able to find another film crew in time? Especially with such a thing as post-production to think of?"

"There's always next year", with an audible shrug.

"Mrs Banma ! That's a terribly heartless attitude!"

"As a matter of fact, it's based entirely on business concerns".

"Then we should be in agreement", said the drug dealer.

Zito wondered if he was still holding his fearful gun. It was an irresistible mystery. Listening, "We business people get such a bad reputation. But this world is so ill-motivated, even in the pursuit of joy. What is business, _our_ business, _all_ business, except the use of money and effort to bring joy? This is Christmas!"

"I see your point", conceded Banma . "But I really think the world would be a better place if you dropped all this, 'Don't call me Scarface' nonsense and gave up the drugs trade".

Staring numbly into the middle distance, the detective's stomach squirmed. The tiny palm trees marking the spicey-blue horizon -you always pictured them in your head as a neat star-shape. The reality was a punk-rocker's hair, an overly-expensive pyrotechnic blast, an exploding space shuttle. In time, gasping a little, he turned to directly face the showdown. Szechaun was bearing down on the woman, indeed with his handgun still brandished. He dominated her, grasped her jaw with his fingers.

"To call someone a drug-dealer, here in Miami, is what they call 'a self-fulfilling prophecy'. In the eyes of the Almighty, I would be entirely justified in shooting you dead".

She struggled to say, "Then do it!"

"Go to your tiny house". He laughed, released her. Coolly, he recited her address as if from a directory. "You've chosen to reject the spirit of Christmas. Who knows what may happen to such a cruel, cruel heart?"

Freed from his grasp, Banma paced away, seemingly adrenalised, frightened, resolved.

xsx

Come the twilight, two men who feared the future made their way across the recesses of Miami. The illuminated city centre they converged on buzzed with coloured lights like any good Christmas in history. The eerily empty carriageways were dark. From the outset, the underground car parks and monolithic scraper ornaments gave a grainy fuzz, while Sonny Crockett's position in the drivers seat of the Spyder was nothing but ink-black despondency.

He pulled in to the alcove of Jackman Bridge at precisely the same moment two squad vans arrived. Trudy was driving one with Switek shotgun. Zito rotated the tiny steering of the van that followed sharply behind, to deposit Gina and the Lieutenant beneath such classy streetlights. It was one of the rare times Sonny had seen him wearing a tactical vest from the outset. Even beneath mounds of kevlar and ammo straps, Castillo still looked awesomely skinny, awesomely imposing.

And so the two men who feared the future walked slowly to the base of the small city bridge; Miami glittered before them in dozens of colours.

"We expect this to be an emergency strike. Banma and Szechaun have had a falling out. With no film shoot as cover, he's almost certain to try and move his product prematurely. Crockett, from your report, it's highly likely that you were made. There'll be another time for Banma".

"And probably sooner than later", suggested Zito. "The way Szechaun was behaving to her, we're talking a full-on assassination attempt".

Crockett's entire body clenched. "Lieutenant, I wasn't made. She looked right at me and there wasn't the tiniest flash of light in her eyes that said, 'cop'".

Shrugged Zito, "It can't have been me. We never even met apart from on the phone, and the director who gave me my orders took my name, but that was about all".

Looking at no one in particular, head inclined minimally at Crockett, Castillo glowered, "In her business life, Beatrice Banma is immediate and decisive. She wouldn't have abandoned the shoot or gone directly to Szechaun without good reason".

Before Castillo continued with his briefing, in the space of barely a second , Tubbs leapt to his partner's defense, effortless, disarming. "Mr Santa Claus Szechaun may have been pressuring Banma for a better deal, and after that with moon-eyes on taking over her supply chain. Wouldn't be the first time a dealer has tried to edge in on distribution".

"We should keep eyes on Banma", Crockett insisted.

Grimace steady, Castillo was almost daydreaming now. Albeit a daydream of high-stakes police work.

"Central Precinct is rotating squad cars around her residence".

"I should go there", persisted Crockett. "Get her to force her hand -or protect her if Szechaun tries to get his lump of flesh".

Castillo glanced at him. It was stern, maybe comradely in his directness -from one man who feared the future to another.

Sonny had once or twice brooded on the difference between them, how it could be quite so fundamental. Because the truth was there, if you looked deeply enough. Castillo a man who feared the evil of the future and believed it was Machiavellian. Plenty of entrepreneurial drug dealers of the sixties and seventies must have soaked up the vibe of those labyrinthine plots to topple Castro, the labyrinthine chicanery of Nixon. Plenty of DAs and police commissioners had run their departments like that as well.

Sonny thought, maybe he's right to see it as such a delicate web. All the veteran cop knew was this: it may have been true once, but it was a different world now. It was a post-Machiavellian age. It was a post-political age. If you thought there was something subtle and insidious that prevented you fighting evil, well, maybe that was true. But you needed to know it was only inside your head. Inside everyone's head. Like a Superbowl showdown, each side of the stadium holding fans who stared across at their counterparts, shouting, not even seeing what was happening pitchside or their own bad behaviour. The truth was blunt, and it was everywhere.

Eventually, Castillo decided, "Go to her. Be ready to defend yourself if things turn ugly".

Gratefully, numbly, Crockett moved to jog over to the Spyder as the other cops readied their slug vests, their radio mikes. He moved casually to flip out his engine key; the back of Rico's fingers stopped him.

"You think Banma isn't as bad as all that", he said it as a statement rather than a question. "You think whatever else she is, she isn't a punk like Szechaun".

"I didn't say that", insisted Sonny.

"You're my partner, I know what you're thinking from first coffee to which clumps of horse meat you feed that evil-lookin' crocodile".

Sonny corrected him for the hundredth time, "Gator".

"We both know it's not just punks who end up trigger-fingered on the wrong side of the track".

Sonny croaked out, "I hear that. But you've got to believe that sometimes things can just get -eclipsed".

"Eclipsed?", Rico tried to understand, if only his friend had it any clearer in his own head.

"Stay safe, Tubbs. Don't take any unwanted presents from Papa Noel, right?"

"You stay safe, too, man", doubtful tone clear in his voice.

Such a supreme, hell-conflicted case. As he folded into the Spyder, drove away, he perfectly sensed the jet-black bodywork become one with the night as nothing else in the world. Enter Westside Miami, suburban moon outpost hell, every shadow arid and dry. A few motel and exclusive prayer hall windows glowed yellow, if only you could see what lay behind them. Maybe everyone in the world had vanished, except a few vice cops, some drug dealers, Beatrice Banma.

Cxs.

A crazily low population of cars, even in holiday time, allowed for ballsy parking directly alongside her office-home. Stepping free, Sonny felt a weird lightness. Mid-height atmosphere caught a repeated, unearthly whooshing sound. It could just pass for storm gusts, before he firmly identified it as the dog track pens -it was the time of year when they shut the whole place down for maintenance. He'd seen it with his own eyes: the traps and the rabbit bursting wide entirely for the benefit of rats and mortified ghosts, silence reigning to the point of dizziness.

How was it, that he didn't feel slightest fear as he sloped in along the tiny driveway, beside the heavy wax bushes that'd be the finest cover for a shooter? He looked through the windows, some of them business blinds, some like your mom's curtains, picked out in such bright orange light. A groundfloor skylight cast a powerful halo on the dark purple carry boards. All was peaceful.

Spurning the intercom, he wrapped with the tips of his knuckles.

"Clay!", she reacted, coming to the door inside the smallest number of beats.

"So here's my story. I enjoyed us building our little business empire together. Couldn't stop thinking about it, so I came on out here to plan a little further. Figured it'd be a certainty you'd be busy with the holidays, so I could always turn back and loose nothin'".

"I've got no life whatsoever, except my ridiculous business. Otherwise, I'm the queen of goofing off".

She was in no rush to invite him in. They stood arched, stiffly adjusting their bodies in the doorway.

Like richest brandy or herbal incense wafted over the brown upholstery, a holiday smell for sure, but hardly significant enough to give comment. The small fairy lights; as ever shining like some first experiment in electricity, ditto the humming radio delivering Rockin around the Christmas Tree, into Springsteen chuckling, completely missing a link from the presenter. Maybe he had the night off for the holidays. A floor-to-ceiling aircon pylon had been pom-pommed with giant tinsel strands, making a sharp connection to the right and glittering green, purple, prism-silver. All these things -dazzling, though hardly significant enough to comment on. Not quite.

"Whisky or Martini?"

She already had the huge Martini bottle poised, and he trusted her judgement.

"I'll go to town with a Martini".

"Just now, I was putting", she said, viz-a-viz nothing.

"Putting, as in golf?"

"When I first arrived in Miami, I noticed that, unless they're going to a party or a nightclub, people don't generally do things in the evening. In any other city, you might watch TV. In the country, you might do an oil painting or write a novel. Not in Miami. And I confess that I like that. Also, if I learn golf, it might help for business deals, right?"

Sonny smiled. "I don't close too many business deals on the golf-course myself. You're better off learning how to duck when the Hurricanes accidentally put their ball in the crowd".

Banma gave a single laugh. "But I am barking up the right tree about what Miami is like? How long have you lived here?"

"Thick end of forever".

"Dramatic. But you _do_ enjoy it? The city?"

Sonny's eyes creased and he frowned, missing the remotest idea how to answer. In the end, he brain-waved just the correct response, grinning, "Supposing you answer for me".

A chewy kind of grin came forth, Banma thoughtlessly pouring herself a Martini at double-speed.

"My family grew up in Monterey, do you know it?"

"Sure, I got the name in my head, just don't ask me whether it's a two-horse town or ivy-league cloister. Isn't it famous for salted butter?"

"Salted butter. And in cowboy days, Charles Clifford Freck shot down Silas Adams after chasing him halfway across the country. I would never call the place boring, or anything other than homely, though so many times as a teenager and twenty-something, I used to dream ...about Miami. My childhood bedroom was at a sharp angle against fifty miles of pitch black prairie, though in my dream, I could crane my neck on the glass and just see the lights of Miami, two or three miles away. So incredibly close. Eerie, really. In those dreams, I never once travelled there, but it was enough to think, 'Wow, I can go there any time I want'. It was like civilisation plus".

Sonny put forward, "I get how a person could see it like that. I just think how you've also got to factor in those smarm-ass business guys disembarking at MIA who've got the same idea. The easter bunny drug dealers in Cuba thinkin', 'no way anything lit-up so bright can hurt you, right?'"

Currently, if Banma knew he was hunting for intel, she didn't show it. "In my dream, it was a different feeling altogether. Certainly, you had the scraper lights, the neon in the business towers, the little ruby lights of the city bridges -but it's like they were put there by something other than mankind. Something peaceful acting _inside_ mankind".

Sonny scowl-grinned, "Come on, Miami? I guess I like the city lights all shining down, but aside from the scrapers, the downtown buildings are like Mexican public libraries".

They spoke for a time about the various Miami Central buildings they'd had cause to haunt, the relative merits, the archaic charms. Admittedly, you had to wait for nightfall for things to come alive.

"You mention Mexican libraries. I used to work with a guy who told a neat story about San Carlos Public Library. He was alone in the reading rooms just before the place closed down for the night. He rounded a corner and, across some tables, saw a little girl of about eight or nine. They looked at each other just for a second, then she rushed towards him, only without moving her legs. She passed through all the tables, only stopping when she seemed to actually get absorbed into his body. Occurred to him afterwards he'd just seen a real-life ghost. What do you think of that?"

Sonny longed to tell her about some of the Haitian hoo-doo he'd come up against in the course of his detective career. He longed to hype-up some of the lurking, back street user-dealers, as frightening and inhuman as any ghost. Instead, "I think I'm not a fan of libraries, and that would seal it".

Weirdest thing. In just the same way Banma speedily knocked back her Martini -narrowly different to the fluid motion of an alcoholic- Sonny felt himself shamelessly daydreaming, mesmerized.

A little while later, he tried fishing for the truth another way, found himself deliriously successful. Beneath his light wool shirt, his heartbeat picked up, his ribs gave an ecstatic ache. "I feel like a sleazeball taking your time. I've heard that if a relative goes to a big army base like Southcom, they've got special phones that connect a person to their loved ones in the forces, no matter where they're stationed in the world. Especially in the holiday season".

"I'm not really married!", she said quickly.

"You're kidding".

"I just say that so men won't pester me. Also, it's a neat little psychology trick to intimidate alpha male clients who come here and think I'll be a push-over just because I'm a woman. Oftentimes, it's two birds with one stone. LA-style showbiz reps are almost exclusively lechy. I don't know why you'd deal with them without that foreknowledge. Surely it's a cliché stereotype that's been known since the dinosaurs?"

"Maybe you're a new breed", joyously off-topic. "Gonna take over the industry completely?"

For a little while, though it felt like hours, they'd been sitting on the modest-plush sofa. Banma 's knees were drawn up. She revealed, "It's not really an industry. It's more a paid leisure pursuit, if that".

"Hey, do I see a distinction? It's still the American dream, right?"

"There's too many traps for it to be a dream", she glowered.

Persisting, "But it sounds like you're equal to 'em. You can dodge the lechy producers, the only thing you gotta worry about in Miami is every man and his dog peddling coke or horse".

And then time seemed to gulp, or crawl.

"I'm not a drug dealer. Any more than you're a film producer".

Sonny scowled, leant forwards, slung his forearms across his knees. "Now what does that mean?"

"At first I thought you were a rival, trying to poach Volumnia as a client. Only that was far too much of an insult. There used to be a producer in this town called Bartie Willingale. Had a glass eye. The joke went, 'You can always tell the fake eye because it has a spark of humanity'. I looked at your eyes, took in the way you measure your breathing. Figured you're a good guy. A cop. Probably in some elite, undercover strike-team. Your real name is probably cool and full of machismo like, 'Jake Hunter' or 'Bruce Riviera' -I could guess all night. Would that be a fun Christmas game?"

Sonny gravely shook his head. "You went to see Akachi Szechaun. You've got some kinda personal connection".

"No", her firmness was almost comical, a dog refusing to give up month-old jerky. "Mr Szechaun is a drug dealer as sure as sunrise in a desert. I quit the Volumnia video being filmed on his land just because I could".

"That hardly convinces", Sonny said flatly.

Avoiding his probing eyes, she stared vividly into a Christmas-decorated corner.

"I did it to help you".

Full of nervous tension at such critical moments -it was one of the smaller character-flaws Sonny had always seen in himself. Craning from the sofa and stalking in front of her, grabbing at her wondrously tough shoulders, "This game you're playing could be the death of you!"

"What's death?", she smiled. "Is it really so unthinkable that a civilian would ally herself with a cop? Just out of attrition? Just out of solidarity?"

He tried to understand. Could not. "You knew Szechaun was scumbag dealer. You meet me. You decide to pick sides. Based on what?"

Now she frowned, cast her head down. A more garden-variety Miami dame might have gestured wildly, sighed, whinnied-up her tone. When Beatrice finally looked up at him, tightened up her mouth and steadied her eyes, it was a gambit to control fate itself. Cool. Brave. He released her and took a backwards step as the silver glare of the Christmas lights did what it could.

"It's based on something deeply personal", she explained. "Suffice it to say, I see myself in you. Someone who's lost once or twice".

"My team has taken apart every bit of your history", he hissed. "The money you use to fund your business doesn't add up. You're a drug dealer or nothing".

"My business is funded by an entirely legal source, wholly outside the interest of the IRS or any treasury inspectors. But all the same, it's something-"

"Tell me", said Sonny.

Almost composed again. Steepled fingers across her folded knee, eyes wavering constantly even as her gaze was fixed solely on him. All funny, sharp flicking motions, much like fire.

"It's something I'm ashamed of".

"We've all done things we're ashamed of".

"But on such an existential level, all backed-up with cringy emotions?"

"Name it", ordered Sonny. "I gotta evil-eyed alligator as a pet, just because the thought of lovin' a cat or a beagle riles me so I don't know happy from sad".

And so Beatrice started to elaborate. She held the glass and the Martini bottle in opposite hands, always an inch or two removed from the pouring motion, never quite treating herself.

"When I left high school, in nineteen-sixty-whatever, I wanted to take the first job I saw, just to prove I had some funny little determination. It was for a company designing corporate technology. Things like machines to sort incoming faxes into separate trays, call-divert units for telephones. But there was one lab that was developing a high-quality radio communication set for business leaders needing to communicate between Asia and the West. Easier than faxes. Cheaper than using the phone line, just. I was just the glorified tea-girl, which suited me fine, but the big change came about when they finally finished their 'research and development'. The guys in the lab were all nerds and croaky old men, and they realised they needed someone with a pleasant, feminine voice in order to take up the microphone and impress their clients. I'd been learning Chinese anyway".

A double-take from Sonny, "You speak Chinese?"

"In this life, everyone has more time than they think. Don't you agree? Surely your commissioner has put you on a night-time stake-out and you've seen the whole twelve hours stretching out before you -and just thought, 'That is an amount time I can't get my head around'? So you sit there feeling hypnotised, a little scared? Like you can think of anything. Achieve anything".

"Commissioner? I answer to a samurai-swinging Lieutenant, but yeah", he shook his head in wonder at how she could see into his mind. "I still wouldn't figure on learning Chinese".

Without having poured a drop, she abandoned the glass and Martini bottle and unfolded herself from the couch. She retrieved something from the corner; he saw it was a Chinese Guzheng. Thereafter to settle back, playing quivering notes he soon identified as the theme music from 'The Mission'. It was beautiful, even if the haunting reverb of the strings was fragile to the point of being scary.

Moving her lips as she plucked, and eased, and scraped. He couldn't make heads or tails of what the words could mean, only that she sounded like a native. Eventually, "Learning Chinese was no harder than learning this ridiculous thing".

"It's real nice", said Sonny, almost forgetting the case.

"The man in Shanghai I had to schmooze was Mr Keqiang. He was just a surprisingly pleasant old man, who'd lived this big, eventful life. He used to have five younger sisters, all killed in the war while he'd been working hundreds of miles away in the central government as an attaché to the American ambassador. Which I guess explains why he got on so well with me; he loved all things stateside. As we tested out the equipment, he on the top floor of his thirty-story HQ, me in a Concord City backroom; we spoke for hours as a pretext to checking the viability of the radio line. I remember laughing like crazy, but also going quiet and thoughtful as he gave me the third degree about my family, my ambitions, my hopes for the future".

After a grim-smiling pause, "My company sold the equipment for a tidy sum. In our last official exchange, Keqiang told how he'd sent me a bouquet of prize Azaleas through an American company, and he hoped they'd reach me soon. Then he smiled, just like your grandpa, and told me how much he'd enjoyed our conversations. The problem with elderly Chinese business leaders, he said, was not so much the loneliness, but the sense of having nothing to connect to, and would I write to him every now and again? He said he'd reimburse me for my time, say, a thousand dollars per letter? The classy thing, I know, would have been to write to him anyway without taking the money. Then I remembered all the sacrifices my parents had made to put me through college. I would happily write to him, take his money, and the cash would go to them".

Sonny was fairly sure he was holding steady with a completely non-judgemental face. Still came a psychic flutter as gentle as autumn leaves, leading her to blink and smile, awesomely confident, "There was nothing sexual about it, or even romantic. Keqiang was just lonely the way everyone gets now and again. Plus I was this very dense, verbose teenager. We both knew he'd get good copy. And besides which, I had three boyfriends during the whole time, and he took a casual, wholly un-jealous interest in them all. My lovers, when they saw me curled up on the sofa scribing dense Chinese on a writing block, they just thought I was a girl with peccadillos".

She paused to gauge his reaction. Sonny glowered, not unfriendly, "Peccadillos and them some".

Now she was slowing the story down, staggering it as it got hella darker.

"Years in, I broke my wrist while making the bed. During my recovery, it occurred to me that I could carry on communicating with Keqiang by recording myself on Super 8, then video, then mailing the tapes to China by express courier. It worked well, to the point where we both preferred it to my writing letters. The newfound interest in recording technology led me to my founding Brooklyn Beattie, twenty-eighty bankrolled between my own savings and Mr Keqiang.

"You know, surrogate daughter and bright-eyed, go-getting Western capitalist, I just went from strength to strength. The old man was insanely proud of me. Then, end of era, he dies age eighty-one of a heart attack. Odd, I know, because of the way they dote on eating fish, getting exercise, clean-living. As for me, I just -drifted. I figured for the first time how I'd actually enjoyed putting myself down on film. The way it forced me to think so crazily deeply -about everything. I carried on making recordings of myself long after the old fellow died, just as a kind of video diary. Does that sound crazy?"

"Try becoming a Miami cop", Sonny shrugged. "Accounting for yourself on camera, in reports, at the courthouse -it'll sure snap you out of enjoying it".

"But I did snap out of it in the end", her smile grew heartbreaking.

"Why didn't you just tell me this earlier?", he wondered. "My lieutenant is building a whole case on you being a drugs kingpin just because we couldn't figure out where your money came from".

"As I said, I'm ashamed of the whole thing".

"Hey, you made a life for yourself out of nothing", Sonny put forward. "Hell if I can see shame".

As per, Beatrice Banma's voice struck to a single pitch, only now it was slower, more deadly. Torment came, dreamy and highly-directed though it was. "One night, my parents rowed and, aged seventy, completely shakey, my dad speeds away in the oldsmobile and gets killed after rolling down an embankment. And I carry on making my stupid video diary. I discover the man I thought was my soulmate is having a completely unrepentant affair. I carry on making my stupid video diary. I get assaulted. Diary. I run down a little boy's puppy in the street. Diary. I find I constantly dream about suicide, only -is it a dream? I look into that lens and explain things, as if a single other person would care or understand. That's the shame, right there. God hates us. If there's a single reason we think at all, it's for His dark entertainment. But what kind of a fool presents their torment on a silver platter for Him, right there on non-degrading magnetic film? I deserve everything I get".

Sonny raised himself and paced. He felt his biceps clench as much as shiver, ache as much as go sentinel beneath his jacket. Forever, from nowhere, he felt the phantasmagorical blood moving between his calloused fingers. It would be a different matter if he had any choice, but he didn't -the truth blew in like a winter breeze.

"The name is Sonny Crockett. I'm a vice cop. Every inch of me is built to chase down the worst people in the world, every second of every day. You asked before about the war. The truth is, it never ends, and somehow there's not a single day I don't wanna walk into the ocean and not come back".

"How do you survive?", Beatrice was fascinated.

"I've got no wise-man BS. If I had to guess? Moments like this".

"But even if you know you'll always lose, in the long run?"

Sonny cast his head down, eyed her keenly. "You said it best yourself, just now. 'What's death?' Kinda follows that you'd think, 'What's losing?'

Blinking, not breathing much, she accepted what he said.

"So when you spoke to me in Chinese just now, what'd you say?"

Beatrice tilted her head, "Not much point learning a foreign tongue if you're not going to start swearing the first chance you get".

Sonny had to grin. At this, Sonny just had to have a smile and shake his head, Beatrice pouring herself a triple Martini which sat in her glass like a breezeblock.

"On the film crew outside Szechaun's place, we had a cop embedded. Said your meeting with him was ugly and then some. The way that piece of trash thinks, it's not impossible he'll come after you. You own a gun?"

"You really think I need one?", just as if they were actors discussing which props might be needed for a vaudeville.

"I know you think you're acclimatised to this kinda thing, but you never are".

Beatrice considered drinking the Martini, then gulped barely a mouthful. Her mannerisms: dynamic in a way that never failed to grab his eye, excite him.

"There hasn't been a day since I moved to this funny town that I didn't think I'd see an OK Corral shoot-out between some goofy Latino gangsters. Surprised it's taken this long. If it's any consolation, you make a hell of a Wyatt Earp".

Confessed Sonny, "I'm more interested in hearing Dixie played on a two-bit piano in the saloon afterwards".

"You should get out of here, anyway", Beatrice breezed. "The rest of your team, all the deputies and the Pinkertons with their sleek rifles -they're no doubt closing in on Szechaun. I know you want to be with them".

Hands on his hips, he gestured helplessly. "I guess you read my mind. But you practically see a shadow, call 911".

As a peaceful backdrop, the ineffective Christmas lights of her studio were something he'd grown accustomed to and in such a weird, automatic way. Edging towards the door, he phased out, looked at nothing, past the wondrously dramatic Bride of Frankenstein statue towards the skinny side door.

It was cold outside. Relatively. At the sea-end, the horizon was an elemental black, just the same shade as the anti-gangs poster which seemed to be on every other wall of the Station House. There was a narrow view of the hasty arterial roads speeding in and out, mostly silent except for a white Porsche, pouring out Big Log by Robert Plant, cruising just-so on a mission. Maybe it was another cop hunting his own version of Papa Noel. Except, orbiting them all, he realised there could never be another Beatrice Banma.

More red tail lights followed, so indicative of the filament-heavy city beyond. Sonny unlocked the Spyder and prepared to take his place.

He heard a crash from the apartment. In a hypnotic, unconscious flash, his gun was drawn. He moved back to the main door, though the place had at least three others that could lay equal claim for making a quick entrance. The deadlock, he'd memorised as a single imperial bolt; it was enough to knock downwards with his gun butt and free up the whole mechanism. And relatively silently, he ghosted around the corner into the main living room.

"Hey!", he rasped.

Beatrice was half-risen from her chair, herself heading in the direction of the home-invasion sound. The alacrity in her woollen dress suggested she had more than enough freedom to run this way or _that,_ co-ordinated, depending on how well they tallied their actions.

Except -she turned to face Sonny at the exact moment the intruder made his decision to storm forward. A gunman. Skidding slightly, he folded one arm across her shoulders, the other placing a barrel squarely at her temple in pose of vice-like determination.

"Give it up", Sonny said simply.

It was the man they called 'Sealie', Szechaun's chief henchman and as low-functioning a psychopath as you could ever meet. He would _not_ give it up; that much was clear.

"Back up, pig, and throw away your gun".

Sonny grimaced. Nothing happened for seconds on end bar the stupid shuffling of their feet.

The immediate danger was Beatrice herself. He'd seen it play out too many times before. The grabbed hostage, especially if they had any heart, believed it was a simple matter to elbow the gunman in his side, possibly breaking a rib, at least paining the guy enough that they could scramble away. It never worked out that way. All too often a decisive gunshot came by reflex, ending everything. He'd seen it happen with psychos a lot less evil than Sealie, victims a lot less single-minded than Beatrice.

"The only way out, you drop that gun", Sonny growled.

Sealie gave a hearty laugh.

Beatrice rolled her eyes impatiently. A boring Christmas song played just when you needed it least. She hitched up her skirt, removed a tiny Diamondback, aimed roughly at her attacker's head -and winced only slightly at the sound of low-calibre glory. A firecracker snap corresponded with Sealie arching backwards. They suspected he was dead, except for the immediate moaning, plus a wound more like a scar between his eye and temple.

Built into the side of The Bride of Frankenstein was a cast iron lug, easily big enough for a one inch chain, presumably in case the owner ever wanted to place her street-side without any strongmen carrying her away. Sonny cuffed the hoodlum at her Christmas-lit base, retrieved his gun.

"I heard a car", gasped Beatrice.

Sonny looked at her quizzically.

"I heard two car doors", she explained.

"Stay there", he commanded her, rushing forward.

Order declined, "We've been in a shoot-out and you're still not deputizing me?"

Together they edged through the dark outer rooms.

"Why didn't you tell me you had a gun?"

Beatrice shrugged, "Philosophy of future America. Stay quiet about owning a gun but always carry one for close encounters. Shout about the nuclear deterrent, but fill the silos with macaroni".

Now looking through the window of her narrow, unsophisticated kitchen, a view of the pedestrian gate and street-lit road hinted at nothing. It would have been over, except for his intuition blasting off-the-scale radar pings from here to eternity, making him hesitant to move, hesitant to think. To their left, the outside door flapped on its hinge, seemingly through the power of high drama alone.

From the shrubbery, someone fired a lazy shot. It blew out the window in set-piece dazzlement, though this was in lieu of the remotest danger to either himself or Banma. Sonny crabbed through the door and out into the night air. His own return fire, a single shot, was admittedly pretty lazy. The villa wall dusted out as if by a tiny meteor strike, just as the second gunman burst low through the gate and away into the luminous sidestreet.

It was Papa Noel himself. Funny how he just _knew_ that. Funny how it was impossible to gauge whether the shootout was now a clinical bid for survival, a cowardly escape or a vengeful game of death. All Sonny knew, he had to move quickly and judge his shots. The dealer had already slung himself into his ugly Alcyone and was revving the engine for a skidding blast at freedom.

The lay-out of the flashy Miami streets; on this occasion, it was an ally. Twenty metres away, it would be necessary for Szechaun to make a skidding, left-hand turn, as sharp as could be. In the intervening seconds, Sonny felt like the God-of-all-precision letting him go -before blasting the back wheel. The vehicle halted, whining in a cloud of mangled gears -just before he took aim at the body work of the front seats, images of tearing up the man's body like a redneck teenager with his first pellet gun.

Shooting at fleeing cars in desperation: something strike-team cops do in desperation. To his amazement, however, Sonny witnessed how he'd actually managed to inflict some damage into Szechaun's thigh. Of course, as he fled around the corner on foot, adrenaline caused the bow-legged limb to be of practically no concern. The kingpin adjusted his gait on the broad pavement from second to second, Gods like Jason and the Argonauts as a Christmas matinee looking down, deferential, impassive.

The detective sprinted headlong, wondering whether to emphasise to Beatrice that she should stay put. The almost military precision as she fanned out beside him ensured that she'd only disobey. Hell of a new partner.

Now the cool night filled their senses with so many unique city-smells; not-unpleasant Castrol fumes, seaweed, yachting fibreglass that had absorbed decades of high-class aftershave and tropical scorching. Funniest of all, this exact hour of darkness allowed for the chill to enter their noses, throats, while the overall temperature of their bodies stayed warm and functional. They ran; Szechaun kept just ahead, dark miracle versus dark miracle.

Here was a crazily broad section of downtown where hundreds of architected streetlights and neon signs co-mingled without ever streaking the night with blurring. As if, even as you got inebriated, a certain level of concentration was insisted upon by the Gods. Sonny felt Beatrice beside him; she was carrying her tiny gun with two hands off beside her thigh in the manner of predator-cops on TV. It was enough. It was alert. Until they turned a corner, onto some straights, soon to discover Szechaun had vanished.

The nightclub on the left-hand side featured a small valet bay at the front of the entrance, at that moment with a vacant-smiling party disembarking a sedan. This suggested that, for a good few seconds, they couldn't have been disturbed by the fleeing gangster. The club on the right -all was unmoving, even as the multiple Christmas-red awnings glowed with eye-catching cosiness.

Beatrice hitched her gun away. Sonny, meanwhile, had almost forgotten he was a cop, forgotten the liberal-inveigled combat rules. He slid away his own piece. They entered, wide-eyed, creeping. At certain points along the densely-tinselled drinks cabinets, concealed speakers played Bing Crosby 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas', forever one of the best -if most boring- of the holiday anthems. And oh to be bored. None of the drunk, half-drunk or intriguingly sober party drinkers looked at them.

Dense nightclubs, Sonny knew. He breathed in the smokey atmos and played his eyes among the packed crowds. Pulling, pushing, taking deep breaths as yet another anonymous year of the nineteen eighties slipped by. Moustache men waited for the punchline of a joke, no matter if it actually came. A one-quarter yuppie salesman rubbed his sheepdog's belly, who seemed to be perpetually snarling if not completely unfriendly. Everything was slow-moving, so much like the tiny movements of the masts at his favourite quayside. He and Beatrice looked at each other, looked at everything.

Thru a narrow estuary of carpet, Szechaun could be seen at a saloon table: some teenage party-goers had seen he was fleeing and accommodated him in sheer bonhomie.

"Is this them?", one of the teens asked of Sonny and Beatrice.

English. Probably visiting Miami as inexhaustible rich-spot tourists. One kid had a shoulder-tied blazer like a stereotyped preppie, another a neon-yellow tee, the remaining two with silver-plaid proto-yuppie business jackets. Everything Sonny could see was a trapping to distract from the fact Szechaun was aiming his huge silver gun from thigh-height beneath the table.

"Come on", insisted one of the silver-plaid English kids, life-experienced tone the fakest thing Sonny had ever heard. "You're playing gangster with this poor bloke right in the middle of Christmas?"

"I'm playing nothing", stated Sonny.

There was a kind of power in not drawing his gun. An even greater power in the way Beatrice's was inaccessible at the rear of her oversized sweater. They loomed steadily over the dealer and his child protectors.

"Everyone knows Christmas", smiled Szechaun. "Everyone knows Miami, and the world. Everyone knows where the money comes from".

Sonny, "Could be true. I don't care in the slightest, pal. Christmas is about peace. So come peacefully".

"There is no peace", shrugged the gunman dismissively. "Except what we fight for".

"So fight", provoked the detective. "Like an animal. All cornered and crazy-eyed, not knowing what's gonna happen ten minutes in the future".

Slowly, the silver hand-cannon was rotated round on Szechaun's knee. In a surprising new dynamic, he raised both hands onto the saloon table and proffered his wrists.

"I'm not afraid of the brief time I will spend in jail. Goodness will prevail".

Cuffing him, mid-roughness, Sonny scowled. "Tell it to the elves".

ecs

Amassed squad car lights added just a bit more colour to the wild neon club frontages. Red and green, plus the mighty yellow fayre-canopies which Sonny hadn't noticed before, cast spidery streaks just about everywhere. Like ne'er-do-well teenagers, he and Banma hung on a huge metal street rail. MTV stars travelling by midnight taxi planes took the place of the moon and stars.

He wondered, how to protract something that was hell unquantifiable. Could he get her a gig filming Vice Department public information adverts? The ones they had were notoriously bad, always casting kids who looked too bluecollary to _really_ be wrong-side-of-the-tracks. Maybe they needed something more abstract and artistic. He wondered, maybe he could invite her to the department's Christmas lunch, get her to videotape _that_? Sometimes he thought it might be nice to have some kind of memento for the future.

Either way, it was a problem that could be put on hold. He saw her smiling, self-satisfied, focussed on nothing whatsoever. A drunk driver in a muscle car was moving at a fraction of street-speed, always on the verge of crashing and pursued by a single squad car. Sonny rolled his eyes and felt absolutely no desire to indulge in police work for a good couple of days. Something in the way Beatrice energetically moved her eyes around relaxed him but crazily. Such vital energy, it was hard to believe had ever been exhausted by operating a movie camera, or looking into one. Wondering, maybe this is the place and time where you _always_ end up if you're royally, majestically exhausted.

From his feet, he picked up the rum and attempted a Merry Christmas gesture. She swung in her bottle to chink the toast before he was remotely ready.

The slow-moving muscle car crashed into a telegraph. The driver immediately fell away into dreams.


End file.
